


Resurrection

by Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Turned Into Vampire, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 20:33:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18483841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead/pseuds/Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead
Summary: Ever since Holmes's return as recorded in 'The Empty House', he has been avoiding Watson and acting strangely. Then a body turns up in the morgue, and there are teeth marks at its throat...





	1. Chapter 1

After the events which I have recorded in "The Adventure of the Empty House", I did not hear from Holmes for two weeks. I had a full work schedule, for following my dear Mary's passing I had turned my focus and energy entirely to my work, which included my practice, some charity work and regular weekend shifts at the Scotland Yard mortuary. Despite my busy routine, not so easy to break after nearly a year, I did make a point of calling at Baker Street at least once a day. Holmes was always out or, on two occasions, unwilling to take visitors. Eventually I received a telegram from him.

JW STOP ENGAGED ON TRYING CASE STOP WILL BE IN CONTACT AS SOON AS AVAILABLE STOP SH FINAL STOP

It was the sort of thing I was used to from the old days, before his apparent death, but now I found this brusque message rather hurtful. The night of Moran's capture we had engaged in pleasant conversation, but still not covered with any real depth the details of his time away. Neither had he asked after my own activities during the years apart from one another and whilst I tried to be equal minded about the entire thing, I left for Scotland Yard that Saturday evening with my temper up.

Lestrade was the one who had found me the Yard job, no doubt under advisement of his wife who had become a friend of Mary's towards the end. Many a time I found myself invited to their house for dinner and truly I had them both to thank for a great deal. Without those dinners and the extra work, I have no inkling how I could distract myself from the black fog of grief that had descended upon my mind.

"A large volume of blood has been drained from the body." I pointed to a small bruise on the, as yet unidentified, corpse's neck. It was one of Lestrade's cases, and the man himself did not look pleased at my findings. "This is the only mark I can find on him of note and as you can see there is a small puncture wound. Perhaps an injection of some sort, though the needle would be quite large. Otherwise I would hazard a guess at some sort of tubing or similar instrument."

"I was worried you were going to say that," Lestrade grumbled. "Lad who found the body's saying he reckons it was something inhuman that did him in."

"Count Dracula?" I joked, but Lestrade was deep in thought. "Lestrade?"

"Face... seems familiar somehow... Oh!" His face alit as he finally struck upon a memory. "Why it's Mr Turlington, from the cake shop!"

"A friend of yours?"

"Not hardly. He was one of the suspects in that triple murder."

"The Dahlberg case? Good grief." I looked with fresh eyes at the man on the table. The family of Lord Dahlberg had all been discovered poisoned in their home three weeks beforehand. The case had caused quite a stir in the papers and I would not soon forget the body of poor Elisabeth Dahlberg, Lord and Lady Dahlberg's two year old daughter. It was despicable, the depths to which humanity could sink to. "Do you think he was the one?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I was at a dead end. I took it to Mr Holmes the day after his return as a matter of fact. He didn't tell you about it?"

"He mentioned a case," I answered shortly, covering Mr Turlington back over with the sheet.

"Well I shall have to go and give him the update. I don't think he'll appreciate me knocking him up at this hour, but he'll want to know. You can accompany me if you like, Doctor."

I looked sharply to Lestrade, who remained inscrutable. For all Holmes might have bad-mouthed the inspector in the past, he was no fool. Or perhaps Holmes was right and I truly was as bad as disseminating as he claimed. Either way, Lestrade had seen right through me to the burning resentment that was mouldering inside.

"A capital idea," I said eventually. "Let me go clean up and then I will join you."

* * *

It was indeed very late by the time we arrived at Baker Street. Lestrade raised his hand to knock, but hesitated.

"I do not wish to wake Mrs Hudson," he explained to me with a grimace. "The last time I did she threatened me with a broom handle."

"Just the handle?" At his pleading look I relented. "I believe I still have my old front door key, one moment."

I had kept the thing on my key-chain more out of sentimentality than anything else, and whether it or the keyhole had warped I could not be sure, but it took about a minute more than it should have before I had finally wrested the lock open. We stepped inside as quietly as we could, hoping the screech of the metal as I forced the key in had not awoken Mrs Hudson.

The front hallway was dark, of course, but there was a light shining from the top of the staircase.

"Oh, he's awake!"

"I don't know why you're surprised." I started upstairs. "He always did keep odd hours."

"I think you forget I didn't ever live with the man." Lestrade stopped, suddenly, upon the eighth step. He pulled his hand from the bannister, peering through the semi-darkness at the viscous liquid upon his fingers. "Doctor, I think this is blood..."

As he said the word 'blood', I felt my own go cold. Without hesitation I pounded up the remaining steps and flung open the living room door.

Sherlock Holmes was inside, and as he turned toward the opening door I saw his shirt was stained red. His eyes were wide and, though brief, I could swear I saw a flash of fear in them. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"What happened?" I demanded, striding over and assessing him with my eyes. He was standing well enough, but he did look dreadfully pale. "There is blood leading up the staircase! Are you hurt?"

"I-" He stuttered to a halt as he saw Lestrade enter over my shoulder. Something seemed to fall over his face, and his voice turned hard. "Get out. Both of you. It is very late and I am exhausted."

I had just been about to inspect him more thoroughly, but stopped short at the steel in his tone. "You have been injured, Holmes. Allow me to look you over, at least."

"I have dealt with it myself."

"What happened Mr Holmes?" Lestrade piped up from behind me. "You look a state!"

"I was accosted by some uncouth young gentlemen in Lambeth, one of whom had a knife. The cut was shallow, but bled a great deal. I have cleaned and bandaged it myself and was just about to head to bed."

Lestrade pulled out a small notebook. "What did the men look like Mr Holmes, perhaps we can-"

"If I wished to track them I would do it myself, rather than trust it to your incompetent forces," he snapped. "Now please state your business so I might retire."

Lestrade's cheek twitched as his jaw clenched and, ever so slowly, he put his notebook back into his pocket. "I only came to tell you that Mr Turlington, the fellow with the cake shop, was discovered dead earlier tonight. Body drained of blood, just one puncture wound, left in a back alley. Now I am sorry if your nerves are strained from earlier events, but I need to know exactly what you have discovered from your investigations into the Dahlberg's murders."

Holmes pursed his lips and went to his armchair. My eyes followed him, trying to trace his muscles under his loose shirt so I might pinpoint his injury. I did not succeed, for he held himself stiff all over, perhaps a reaction to Lestrade's demand.

"Very well, but first I must ask a favour." He sat carefully in his armchair. "The Constable around the corner at Knox Street assisted me home, but I believe in the confusion he may have taken an important piece of evidence. It was a handkerchief, no doubt he thought it was mine, but it truly is vital to the case. Would you fetch it?"

Lestrade sighed. "Knox Street? Fine. Will you come too, Doctor?"

"No need," Holmes said smoothly before I had the chance. "Watson's leg is paining him."

I frowned. My leg  _was_ paining me, but I found it peculiarly irksome that he had pointed it out. "I am quite capable-"

"It's alright," Lestrade interrupted swiftly. "I'll go myself."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Truly, when had I become so petty? "Of course, Lestrade. We will see you shortly."

The detective departed to find the Constable. We heard the front door close below us and I sighed inwardly, not ready for the time alone with-

" _Watson_."

I looked at him, alarmed, for his utterance of my name had been edged with a desperation I had never heard from him. His eyes shone with urgency and he was back on his feet, wringing his hands in agitation.

"We must leave before Lestrade returns. Write a note, saying that I was more injured than you first thought and that you have gone with me to hospital."

"What? Holmes if this is another of your tricks-"

"Please, Watson." He moved as if to grab my hand, but stopped himself. He really was frightfully pale. "I know you are angry with me, but I promise I can explain. Away from Lestrade. You are the only one I can tell."

I hesitated for only the slimmest half of a second. No matter how angry I was, I had never been able to deny Sherlock Holmes anything he asked of me.

* * *

We arrived at my practice, but the distance from Baker Street did nothing to assuage Holmes's agitation. As I turned the gaslight up in my living room he started to pace.

"Will you remove your coat?" I asked, striving for levity despite his evident stress.

"Watson, I have something to tell you."

"So you have said." I removed my own coat and shoes. It had been quite some time since I had employed a regular maid - there had scarcely been need since Mary's death. "Whatever it is, I am sure it cannot be as bad as all that."

"I killed him." He stopped dead, looking to me with haunted eyes. He had not changed his shirt, and I looked with fresh eyes upon the crusted blood I had assumed was his. "Mr Turlington. It was me."

"You mean you-"

"I murdered him, Watson. In cold blood."

"I..." For a few moments I struggled to make sense of what I had just heard. "There must have been a reason. For you to do such a thing. You would not have killed an innocent man."

"No, that's true I suppose," he agreed softly. "He committed the Dahlberg murders. If not stopped he would have killed again. But the real reason Watson... that I killed him instead of simply having him arrested..."

He shook his head with a visible swallow, unable to continue. I attempted to reason it out with his own methods.

"There was a single puncture wound. The front of your shirt was drenched with blood as if... as if... But that couldn't possibly-"

"I didn't want to." His voice was low and his gaze directed to the carpeted floor. "I have tried to abstain. During my time... away... I was disgusted with myself. I thought, I- I hoped I could shake the addiction upon my return, but this isn't like the cocaine, Watson. It's like nothing I've ever experienced."

Wordlessly I stepped forward and took his wrist. He twisted his head away from me, as if frightened of my reaction. I held my fingers to his pulse point and waited one minute. Nothing.

"Oh my dear friend." I grasped his hand, so very pale and cold. "You really did die that day, didn't you?"

I pushed him towards a seat, then crouched before it to listen to his tale. His body was slack and unresisting, energy spent with his confession. "I awoke on a riverbank, probably washed downstream from the falls. I was thirsty, but water did nothing to satisfy me. Eventually some- some instinct kicked in and I knew what it was I needed. It was fortunate I was in farmland, or else God knows who I would have-" He broke off with another reflexive swallow and I squeezed his hand, still clasped loosely in my own. "I lived like that for some time. Then in Tibet I was attacked and I couldn't... I didn't mean to but I couldn't-"

"I am glad you did," I told him, and waited until he met my gaze. "I mean it Holmes. If it saved your life, I am glad you did it."

"But at what cost, Watson? Ever since Moran's capture my thirst has been growing. I turned you away every day for fear of what I might do if I lost control. Then Mr Turlington-" He shuddered, shrinking back into the sofa, but I held fast to his hand and he seemed to use it as some kind of anchor. "I only intended to arrest him. But when he fought back the- the  _hunger..._ "

"You should have come to me sooner," I reprimanded gently. "I am brought fresh bodies every week at the Yard. There are ways around this, Holmes."

"I did not know you were working for the Yard," he admitted. "This last fortnight all I could think of was blood. But you are right, of course. Perhaps there are other solutions."

"Of course there are." I extricated my hand from his and rose to my feet, for my leg could not take that position for much longer. As I rose, a sudden thought struck me.

"Watson?" Holmes yelped as I bent over double with laughter. No doubt he thought I had quite abandoned my wits. "Watson, calm down!"

"I- I am not hysterical," I reassured him, but could not manage much else for I was laughing so hard. "It- it is simply... that I- I wondered w... why there was only one... puncture wound... in the neck!... But then I remembered you- you are-"

"I am missing my left canine," he finished impatiently when I found myself unable to finish the sentence. "And?"

"It's only who- who ever heard..." I sucked in a breath and managed to gasp all at once, "Who ever heard of a one-fanged vampire!?"


	2. A Clean Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes's condition causes complications, and Watson suffers the consequences.

"You not gone home yet then?"

I forced myself to maintain an air of nonchalance as I closed my medical bag, cheating my body to be sure that Lestrade wouldn't see the human heart I had packed carefully inside.

"Not yet." I turned to Lestrade with a ready smile. "Isn't your wife waiting for you?"

Lestrade grimaced. "All ready for a nice meal and I get a telegram that there's been another robbery. Bastards the lot of them, pulling something like that on New Year's Eve. Don't they know I've got a family back home?"

"Awfully inconsiderate," I agreed with mock solemnity. "Is that four now?"

"Five. I thought about asking Mr Holmes if he might look into it," Lestrade admitted as we both left the mortuary. "It's starting to get desperate."

"He's been engaged on another matter," I lied smoothly. In truth Holmes already knew of and was investigating the robberies but, as he had not fed in over two weeks, preferred to reduce his contact with others as much as possible. It was out of desperation that I had offered to do the graveyard shift on New Year's Eve, unjustifiable thrilled when they brought in a poor unfortunate who had slipped and dashed their brains under a hansom cab's front wheels. "But perhaps in a day or two?"

"I'll hold you to that." We were outside the Yard now, the air brisk and the street empty save for a constable who nodded to us as we passed. "Well, happy new year Doctor."

"Happy new year Lestrade."

I watched him retreat home to his wife, exhaling in relief as he disappeared into the darkness. It was foolish to be so anxious, for what reason would Lestrade have to rummage in my bag? Still, I was glad to be away from prying eyes.

I did not value the solitude quite so much on my journey home, when I heard heavy footsteps approach from behind. On instinct I swung out with my cane, feeling it hit flesh with a satisfying  _thwock!_ Almost simultaneously an almighty blow impacted my side, sending my knees to the cobbled road. My medical bag fell from my right hand, but my cane was still clenched tight in my left and I used it to strike out behind me again, the blow hitting the legs of my assailant from under him. Rolling onto my uninjured side, I kicked out again and again. My assailant, whose grubby face I could barely see through the darkness, grunted with pain and seemed to decide the effort was not worth the reward. He scrambled away from my thrashing legs and onto his feet, running back from whichever back alley he had emerged.

Safe for the time being, I let myself lay limp on the damp cobblestones, breathing deeply. With every breath the ache in my side resolved into a sharp and urgent pain and, after a brief examination, I realised that I had been stabbed. It was only a small blade, so no organ damage, but I did not wish to remove it here for fear of bleeding out.

With difficulty I regained my feet and went to where my medical bag had fallen a few feet away. A quick check revealed the heart still intact within, (though I was certain Holmes wouldn't much mind its condition), and I went to hail a cab to the safety of 221B.

* * *

The journey lasted far too long, but at last I made it home and staggered up the 17 steps to our living room.

"Watson?"

"Here." I extracted the wrapped heart from my bag and handed it to him, before hobbling over to my chair. "Fellow died in a cab accident."

I tried not to be too offended when he marched from the room without another word. In the brief glimpse of him I had had in the moonlight that streamed through the bay window, he had been so pale as almost to shine. Embarrassed at what he did to survive and so long without blood, the heart must have been irresistible.

He came back into the room just as I was ready to remove the knife. Jacket and waistcoat removed and bloodstained shirt open, I had finished cleaning the surrounding area and was considering how best to proceed. The knife was in an awkward position and my hands were already trembling with the exertion as I twisted in my seat to fully reach it. I would need opium to numb the area before I could withdraw the blade. "Would you mind passing-  _ah_!"

There was an intense and agonising pain in my side and through dimming vision I saw Holmes toss aside the knife he had just ripped from me. Of all the shocks I had endured that night - from Lestrade's near discovery of my organ-smuggling to the attack on the street - nothing could have prepared me for the sight of my friend, usually so together and restrained, now reduced to a snarling, feral animal. His eyes dark with an inhuman hunger, he flung himself upon my bloody side and began to feast.

I strained away from him, unsure whether his strength was due to his own transformation or my increasing weakness. Either way, my grasp on reality was fading fast, my sight blurring. My side burnt with excruciating pain, but I managed to fill my lungs and hiss his name one final time.

" _Holmes..."_

He jerked away and I had a brief glimpse of his pale features, marred with red, before he had sprung up and out of my eyeline. I blinked sluggishly and attempted to follow him with my gaze, but found I could not raise my head from where it lolled against the back of the armchair.

Something was placed firmly against my side, but the pain felt distant. Indeed, everything felt distant. An insistent tapping against my cheek and I realised I had allowed my eyes to close.

"I need you to keep pressure on the wound." Holmes loomed large in my distorted vision, smears of red along his jawline. "Can you do that Watson? Watson!"

I had already forgotten what it was he had asked. All I could focus on was my own blood, smudged upon him like some crude cave painting. I tried to raise my hand to wipe it away, but my arm would not cooperate.

"MRS HUDSON!"

The bellow drew my attention back to Holmes, whose grip remained firm at my side even though his face was now turned away. There was a flurry of activity, but my senses tuned in and out alternately and my only abiding sensation was of a lingering chill. Hands even colder than the chill hauled me to my feet, and the subsequent rush of blood from my head sent me into oblivion.

* * *

I was in Holmes's room when I awoke. I still felt frightfully weak, but I could at least lift my head. As I did so, I spotted him standing with his arms wrapped about himself in the doorway. He did not draw any closer and I could not make out his expression the shadowy room.

"How long..?"

"A few hours." His voice was tight and devoid of emotion. "It is half three in the morning. You should go back to sleep."

The memory of what had happened lingered dark and foreboding in the back of my mind, but I had no desire to prod at it. I followed Holmes's instruction and fell back asleep.

* * *

The next morning, the chinking of china filtered through to my foggy mind.

"Dr Andrews said the eggs would help him get his strength back." That was Mrs Hudson's hushed voice. "You should eat as well you know."

"I am not hungry." And there was Holmes, voice careful and controlled. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson tutted softly and her footsteps faded away.

"I know you're awake, Watson."

I hummed softly, content to take my time. Eventually I forced my eyes open and pushed myself gingerly up against the pillows, all too aware of the heavy bandaging to my side and lingering weakness in my muscles.

Holmes had barely moved from the night before, standing so stiff he could well have passed for the wax bust he once used as a decoy. He watched me with a shuttered expression.

"You are still weak."

"That is to be expected given the blood loss," I replied amiably enough. "I should be my old self in a day or two."

This did nothing to appease him. "Dr Billington said as much."

"Billington?" I frowned, trying to place the name. "Local?"

"He lives the other end of Baker Street," Holmes said, careless tone at odds with his tense posture. He had still made no move to come further into the room. "He was the closest I could find."

"A blood-stained vampire prowling the streets in the dead of night... you must have given him quite the fright," I tried to joke, but it fell flat and he did not respond. "Look... Holmes, I-"

"I should let you rest. Mrs Hudson has left a tray, if you are hungry."

I turned to the tray on the bedside table, but the sudden movement tugged at my side and left me hissing in pain. Holmes made to help, but hesitated two feet from the bed.

"I will get Mrs Hudson."

" _Holmes_."

He exhaled shakily. "Once you have had opportunity to reflect on the events of last night, I am sure you will find yourself more comfortable with Mrs Hudson."

"I remember what happened." It was only half a lie; I certainly remembered the worse portion of events.

"I nearly killed you!"

"But you didn't. You went for help. You saved me." I leant back against the pillows, looking mournfully toward the food I could not reach. "Holmes, would you mind terribly...?"

He fetched the tray for me and placed it upon my lap. The eggs were a little cold, but I paid that no heed, digging in with gusto as he watched awkwardly from the side. I shuffled over with a wince and patted the space beside me. He hesitated.

"There's no risk of you trying to suck my blood  _now_ , surely?"

He dropped onto the bed with a scowl. "This is hardly the time for your pawky humour, Watson."

"Because you tried to eat me?" I responded impishly through a mouthful of breakfast. "You must own the situation is rather surreal."

"You could have  _died._ " He twisted his hands together in agitation. "Of all the terrible things this- this  _condition_ has made me do I never imagined I could... When I saw what I had done to you..."

"Do not think on it," I told him a little gruffly, for I myself had no desire to remember the image of my own blood leaking from his mouth. "I am alive and well and so are you. That is all that matters."

"I had to leave Mrs Hudson with you whilst I ran for the Doctor." His eyes were distant now, full of sorrow. "When I returned with him I thought you- I thought it might be too late. Multiple sutures, Billington said, because of how brutal the wounds were. I told him you had been attacked by some vicious beast." His shoulder trembled against mine. "I was not even hungry. I had just..." He swallowed and pushed the next word out with evident disgust,"- _devoured_ the heart. Yet when I smelt fresh blood, I couldn't resist."

"Then why did you?" I pushed the breakfast tray away and leant further into his shaking shoulder, sensing that he needed the contact. "Resist, that is?"

"I..." His words trailed off, a rarity. It always amused me, how much he saw of other people compared to how little he understood himself. "I realised what I was doing. I understood, somehow, whose blood I was drinking. Panic took hold. When you said my name, Watson, it was as if I came back to myself. My  _human_ self."

"Then if anything similar occurs, I will know what to do."

"And you are not..." He teetered on the very edge of what he wished to say. "...You are not frightened of me?"

In truth, it would be some time before I could shake the vision of him half wild with hunger, or the feel of his teeth ripping into my side. But what was the alternative - to move out and end our friendship? "There are for more terrifying prospects out there."

"You are too forgiving," he murmured, but his tone was fond and at last he seemed to relax.

"Well, it is a new year." I burrowed deeper into bed as he stood to return my half-empty tray to Mrs Hudson. "What better time to clean the slate?"

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted from my FF.net account, one of my entries for the December Calendar Challenge that I run over there. One more chapter to come.


End file.
